


free fall

by kinpika



Category: DCU, Teen Titans - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Ratings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:53:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of DCU ficlets that vary in pairing, rating and length. Random updates. All chapters list pairings or relations.</p><p>Update:<br/>- DickWally, nsfw<br/>- DickTimDick, nsfw</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. timbart: when you realise you've fallen in love

Tim likes Bart.

This is something he works out, in the middle of a swing, high above Gotham. Thursday night before the weekend at the Tower. A run around with Nightwing, who lets out a loud _whoop_ as he winds around a building. In town for ‘family business’, as it had been put, rather scathingly. Tim doesn’t try to take notice of such things, because it’s the first time in a long time since he’d been able to spend time with Dick, just the two of them. Playing tag without fear of getting caught.

But then he thinks a little too hard. Starts thinking about Cassie, and Kon. And Vic and Gar and Kori. _Bart_. A last running thought through his mind, the irony not lost on Tim. Just before the cord goes tight, he can’t help the sharp intake of breath, the _oh no_ that fills him. Dick is perceptive, but waits until they’re perched, above the city, hand on shoulder. “You alright?” he says, in that way with that smile that has all the girls _ooh_ and _aah_ in the magazines. For a moment, Tim can see the attraction, wishes it was transferable. 

“I’m fine.” Lies through his teeth. Not like Tim hasn’t lied before — made an active habit of lying to _Batman_ , lies constantly to his father, lies to himself sometimes. Maybe something in his voice gives him away, maybe Dick has a dormant metagene that only activates when he can tell he’s being lied to.

Dick doesn’t press him. Squeezes his shoulder, gives him a slight shake. “If you’re sure.”

I’m not, Tim thinks. “I’m good, I swear,” Tim says. 

Liar. Tim can practically feel the accusation oozing off Dick. At least Dick never made a point of getting overly offended by it. It was just part of their occupation after all, and Tim wasn’t sure how to approach something like _this_ with Dick. 

But then he considered it — the different outcomes. Several paths that all lead to it inevitably coming up in some way, somewhere. Too much to prepare for. Get it over now.

I like Bart. “What do you do if you like someone?” Tim can only so much as mumble it into their earpiece, wind whooshing past him, through his hair. Best feeling, coupled only with the burning dread that he truly liked someone. How had it taken him this long to notice?

“That’s what this is about?”

Maybe the look on his face was strong enough that Dick could feel it through the back of his head, because he laughs. “I’m _kidding_ , Robin.”

“‘Course you are.”

They find another spot to settle on. Time was nearly up. Tim almost wished he hadn’t said a word. All he gets is a nudge to the shoulder, could feel just how warm Dick was beneath the kevlar, and it made him think of someone else. This was getting out of hand.

“Have you considered telling the person?”

“I never said it was _me_.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Tim makes another face, rolling his eyes behind the mask. Too obvious in his approach, should try something else next time. Just not with Dick and him being too good at reading the situation. “Doesn’t matter, ignore me.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Robin.”

“Sometimes I wish it would, Nightwing.”

“You just want to ignore these feelings away?”

But he _had_ for so long. Tim doesn’t remember a point where these feelings even started, only that he had just noticed when he was making lists, speeches, remembering what time people would arrive at the Tower, how Kid Flash’s room was so close to his own. That he could hear the thrum of the speed force through the walls, and never seemed to stop himself from holding a hand against the steel to feel it too. “Yes.” It would make things easier.

Dick gives him a sad look, mask hiding his eyes but Tim knew what that turn in the corner of his mouth meant. Turning back to look over the city, Tim thought about how the next night would be him in the Tower, curled up in a bed he still hadn’t got quite used to, knowing it was once Dick’s. Knowing that he was filling shoes that were always two sizes too big, leading a team that was no longer truly just them. Everything meant something else now. 

Tim closes his eyes, and thinks of the sunrise over the Tower. “I have to,” he says. Behind his eyelids, he sees bright yellow googles, barely hiding eyes that _shined_. “I can’t risk it.”

“You’re far too mature, you know.”

“Not all of us can act out and be the _Teen Titans_ , you know.”

Laughter. Tim likes it when Dick laughs. It wouldn’t be the first time that Tim had considered Dick truly had a latent metagene, something to do with empathy. “ _Young Justice_ was just a phase, then?”

Grinning despite himself, Tim stands. “The name was completely unintentional. The rest? Not so much.”

“Not so much,” Dick echoes, and they can hear scuffles in the streets below. Duty calls. Tim isn’t quite as quick and graceful, dropping down several stories. But he disables one attacker, a firm elbow to the back of the neck (amateurs these days), and for one sweet moment he’s able to forget his feelings, and the knowing expression Dick holds, even after they’re tying the bad guys up old school, waiting for the cops.

For one whole moment, he can forget. But then they’re up in the air again, Oracle in his ear, telling he has a missed message. A snarky comment about suddenly being a voicemail service, and Tim hears Bart’s voice. Can see the way Bart blinks too fast, but more like several times over, too fast for Tim to keep up. That slight jump in his voice, as he corrects him from ‘Ti— _Robin’_. Tim is warm and cool and nothing but nervous sweat and thankful for Wayne Enterprises designing his suit because he was sure he would lose his grip as he hears a:

_“See you soon! I can’t wait!”_

I’m doomed, he thinks. His face gave him away again. Dick laughs, and Tim thinks that he might have been talking to Barbara. Maybe they were snickering into their communication devices, and Tim thinks a _rude_ , but doesn’t feel it. 

Doesn’t feel his face, because he’s smiling far _too hard_ and throws himself a little _too hard_ at the next ledge and lands a little _too hard._

But he’s fallen hard. And he can’t get up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is mostly a dumping ground for rando drabbles I've done over the last few months  
> i am taking requests on [tumblr](http://www.hotlineaisui.tumblr.com)


	2. jayroy: a new kind of rebirth, a new kind of love

Sleeping in was a luxury, most days. Although for Jason, he knew it more to be a constant drift of in-and-out, eyes occasionally flicking open to see the ceiling lighting up, but that was it. The arm around his waist was heavy and warm, and more than once he considered throwing it off. Yet his own arm had been held captive by a very content head, and Jason finally decided enough was enough. 

With a grunt, he shifts, and gets a solid huff in response. But it’s enough to convince the person occupying his bed to move as well, head sliding off his arm — freedom. Whilst the hand didn’t leave his belly just yet, it was better than nothing. Gave Jason some breathing space, a slight crack of his eyes to determine that yes, the sun was still shining.

They had a visitor.

“Lian,” he croaks, voice still holding some vein of sleep. She had stopped her walk around to his side of the bed, spooked and caught-out. Jason couldn’t help the little smile, as he shrugged Roy off a little more. “Morning.”

Jason gets a hushed whisper of “morning” back, edge of the bed dipping under the barely there weight of the little girl. She needed to eat more. Maybe it was getting around breakfast time, or even lunchtime. They were holed up in one of Jason’s last hideouts in Gotham for the week, and the windows were programmed to slowly let light in. Still remarkably dim. He had no idea what time it was.

“What’re you doing up?” Jason asks, rubbing his face with his hands. Definitely awake now. Thankful that post-mission he had managed to get a pair of pants on before passing out, and had dumped their uniforms in the chute in the wall. Wasn’t thankful that autopsy scars were on full display, but Lian was carefully avoiding staring at him. Smart girl, or scared girl. Jason was knowledgable enough to put money on the former, and wondered if Roy had said something.

“Couldn’t sleep.” An easy admission for her, one that does not have her looking off, ashamed. Her gaze was too strong for such a little girl, but there was fear at the edges, betraying her. Lian was trying to be stronger than she should’ve, and Jason could understand that need completely.

But he smiles, as gently as he could, and holds an arm out for her. “Yeah, me either. Your dad snores really loudly, you know.”

Lian is slow as she lowers herself, and Jason can’t work out if she’s worried about waking up Roy, or if this was going a mile too far. Or maybe she had heard them come in last night. Jason noted the sheet was still up over Roy’s back, thankfully covering the bandages. Roy had sworn up a storm as they’d made their way to the ‘doctor’s office’, as it had been affectionately called. That name wasn’t praised so highly after picking out glass, bullets and other shrapnel with a pair of tweezers for a good hour, but that was beside the point.

Roy snorts in his sleep, rubbing his nose, rolling the other way. It’s the little giggle from Lian that has Jason smile wider, and he shifts his arm around her, holding her a little tighter. She was warm, and it wasn’t the first time Jason had considered it might just be an inherent family trait. Or that he will always run those few degrees cooler than the rest. Damian had suggested something of the like, not long ago, about how it always felt like his heart wasn’t strong enough anymore. At that time, Jason hadn’t truly wanted to think about it, but now—

When Lian shifts to make herself comfortable, she looks up at him. Her eyes are a vivid green, not unlike leaves in the spring, that great stretch of water they’d stumbled across on one of their more unfortunate attempts at vigilante-for-hire, and _pits_. Always came back to pits. But it doesn’t hurt to look at her anymore, and be reminded of that time. His body might run a bit colder, his scars might never have healed, and he had been told his eyes were all murky and no longer that crisp blue he had once loved because it was just like his father’s, but that wasn’t so bad anymore.

Squeezing Lian just a little, Jason notes that Roy really does roll away, finally, and he laughs. “Wanna help with breakfast?”

She puts on the most contemplative face he had ever seen, and there was Roy, through and through. But it’s the _smile_ , as she buries herself, hand settled gently over his chest, that reminds him of Jade. And Jason can see the green of the pit, and think this is some other kind of rebirth. The better kind. “Five more minutes.”

Jason grins, closing his eyes once more. “I like the sound of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry i rly like lian and jason having a gentle kind of relationship at first... this would be not long after roy introduces them... 
> 
> taking requests on [tumblr](http://www.hotlineaisui.tumblr.com)


	3. alfred and jason: merchant of venice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for mari

Alfred hears the clicking of nails along the floor. Not the most unusual sound in the house of course, since he had seen Titus slip upstairs earlier (likely to sneak into Damian’s room while he was out for business). But, he doubted it was the great dane, and unlikely to be Pennyworth, who had found a nice space to hide in one of the cupboards. Even the cow made less noise, and if it hadn’t been for the sudden sharp bark, Alfred may have overlooked it, assuming Titus had simply found the stash of treats.

Carefully, he walks up the stairs. There’s a voice accompanying the scrambling on the poor wooden floors, and he does have a moment to wonder if he should let the would-be thief go, if they were intent on bringing their own dog along. Titus meets him at the top of the stairs, sufficiently removing the theory it was him after all, and Alfred follows the dog to one of the rooms, third down the left wing. 

Quite the adventurous thief, and Alfred has to admire their bravery for breaking into one of only two locked bedrooms in the Wayne Manor. Not that there was much in the way of the particular room they had chosen, a thought that does make an old kind of pain thrum once again. Never quite left his bones really, and as he’s pulling out his keys, purposely rustling them just to give the person on the other side a warning, Alfred does wonder if he should at least be surprised at who the culprit was.

Almost naturally, he is first spotted by the great German Shepherd, who then diverts it’s attention almost instantly to Titus behind him. Despite the noticeable size difference, Alfred steps aside to watch Titus be bowled over. 

“Master Jason, would you care to join me for morning tea? Instead of creeping through your old room like some common thief, perhaps?”

Jason looked momentarily like a deer in headlights, before seemingly shrugging off such a thing and setting whatever it was he was holding down. Moving from his old desk, Jason drags a finger along the top before taking the single frame on the wood. Alfred does not say a word, as the simple idea of Jason jumping a few feet in the air at being caught would not be leaving his mind any time soon, and the boy continued to drag his feet. Behind him, Titus had resigned himself to his fate, as the German Shepherd rushed past to run around Jason’s legs, and back out again.

“Master Bruce is out on business, currently, as is Master Damian. No one will be here to say otherwise.”

“That’s not what I—” Jason cuts himself off, only to pull a face that Alfred hadn’t seen since he was fourteen and sidelined, pouting all the way up to his room. There was that slight ache again, a hope, that they were making progress, finding their way to the Jason they still remembered. That _he_ still remembered. “Fine, yes, I’ll join you.”

“Very good, sir.”

Titus walks alongside him as he descends back down to the kitchen, not waiting for Jason to catch up. Alfred knew Jason well enough to know he wouldn’t slip out when his back was turned — he had never been that kind of boy. As he pulls out a tray of scones, made only several hours prior, Jason finally sits on the other side of the counter. His German Shepherd seems to smile, before settling at the legs of the stool, and Jason pulls a bit of his scone off to drop it down below.

“I didn’t mean to break in, you know.”

Alfred does not stop his eyebrows from raising, but resists the urge to smile as Jason slathers on jam to one half of his scone. “No?”

“It was just… easier.”

“Master Jason, may I point out that you somehow managed to haul your dog through the window of your room. The front door would have been ‘easier’.” 

A scoff, and another part of the scone disappears, this time covered liberally in cream. Alfred kept his minor disapproval to himself. At least someone was hungry. “It’s not like I could stop him. He keeps following me everywhere.”

As if knowing he was spoken about, Alfred watches as the top of the dog’s head appears, just briefly, before disappearing again. Then up once more, even as Jason scowls and tries to push him down. Titus huffed from his bed on the other side of the room, something that Alfred found himself agreeing with. “He has taken to you quite well.”

Jason makes some indescribable noise, hand on the dog’s head, shoving him away again. Taking Jason’s silence in stride, Alfred speaks up again. “Have you given him a name?”

“Tim called him ‘Dogmeat’ the other night,” Jason sniffed. “I hadn’t really thought about it.” Alfred too had heard that reference, something about how Jason had stumbled upon the dog and it had taken to following him around. Apparently it was from a video game, and Damian found the name ‘unfortunate and unsightly’, much to Timothy’s displeasure.

“Have you considered something from one of your favourite plays?”

“I hadn’t even thought about keeping him, honestly.”

“And yet you brought him here…?” Trailing off, Alfred watches as the dog trots over to Titus’ water bowl, helping himself despite the displeased growl. He was quite charming, and Alfred could see that he had been cared for in the past few days. A remarkably shiny set of eyes to accompany the perky behaviour. Not unlike a younger Jason.

“Like I said, he followed me.”

“Master Jason, as I said, you then proceeded to _pick him up_ and, I assume, _carry_ said animal through the window of the second floor.” 

“Well, when you say it like that—”

Alfred watched as Jason seemed to mull over the situation, turning to watch as the dog continued to sniff around under Titus’ watchful eye. “I was only here for the photo. And a few books.”

“May I see which ones you had decided to take?”

Jason looks remarkably put out, but fishes inside his coat to pull free a dog-eared copy of _The Merchant of Venice_. One of the last books they ever had a chance to read, before everything. Flipping through the pages, Alfred can feel the chide on his tongue, about how Jason should use a bookmark, not just turning the corner of the page over and over. So many had been marked, and a pen had been used to draw under certain lines. Little notes here and there, a scribble that looked vaguely like Batman, and Robin. Easier times, indeed. Finally, Alfred lands on the last page they had read, and noticed the mark for his part. They never had time for Jason to learn the next few lines, to dissect the meaning. 

Clearing his throat, Alfred speaks up, reading. “‘An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven…’”

A long pause fills the room, as Jason looks very seriously at the book for a moment. Alfred fears he may have overstepped, that it was too early to hope, but finally Jason speaks, voice gravelly. An attempt to imitate how he had always thought Shylock had spoken. “‘Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?’”

“‘No, not for Venice’.” Snapping the book shut, Alfred settles it back on the counter, fighting the smile.

Jason grins, and rubs a hand over his face. “We never finished reading that one together.”

“When did you learn the lines?”

“Not long after first coming back. I read them… yeah, it doesn’t matter. But I learnt it.”

“I see.” Alfred does not know where to go, what his next move should be. But Jason startles him, as the dog bounds back over. 

“So, _Shylock_ , huh?” Jason rubs his chin, as if thinking it over. “How does that sound, boy?”

The dog leaps at Jason, as if understanding entirely. Rubbing the dog’s face, Jason smiles absolutely genuinely, for what Alfred believes to be the first time in a long time. Smiling down at his own cup of tea, Alfred does not see it worth commenting on, and enjoys the moment. Jason gives a slight laugh, as if his voice still wasn’t used to the sound, and Shylock barks happily, while Titus huffs in the background,

And Alfred can see a happier future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved the relationship jason and alfred had so... i had to write smth...
> 
> the lines themselves are from act IV,1,2169. and shylock is notorious for no one ever knowing if he's supposed to be a villain or a man clinging to decency. i think it fits jason well, in a way. i was going to call the dog "lancelot", too. dogmeat was totally just a s/o obv, about how it followed him home.
> 
> give jason a PTSD dog 2k16


	4. dicktiger: in the moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for kathy  
> nsfw one this time

For the most part, Dick did truly enjoy working with Tiger. Sure, he acted like he had a flagpole shoved up his ass _sideways_ far more than he should, but the guy was funny. Didn’t like Dick’s jokes or singing, but everyone was a critic and quite frankly, Dick just thought he was an art snob.

Tiger yells something that sounds vaguely like ‘Grayson!’ and ‘duck!’ and likely an insult, but Dick does as he’s told, misses the punch, and watches the guy go flying as he’s caught face first by a loosed crate. That won’t be fun to clean up. Making a face as Tiger drops down finally, kicking the guy in the foot as if to prove he was still alive, receiving ‘only a flesh wound’ (“Tony, was that a reference?!” “Shut up, Grayson”), Dick finally has a chance to breathe.

Until it’s gone, as Tiger’s upon him instantly, hands on either side of his face and he’s kissing him. Dick wasn’t much of a judge when it came to kissing, but Tiger was all these weird strokes with his tongue which felt really good, except that lent to one too many mental images of actual animals — and several misplaced jokes. Tiger never found those funny. Shame.

“Here?” Managing to finally get a word out when Tiger wasn’t trying to quite literally eat his face off, Dick finds himself being backed up to one of the particular crates they were meant to be salvaging. Or destroying. No higher brain power when a hand lands on his crotch, especially when it was attached to _The Tiger_. He would laugh about that in the morning.

“ _Yes_.”

“Um, why?” 

“You did good.” God, at least Dick wasn’t the only one who lost the sense of talking when there were dicks and kisses involved. And other Dicks. Reminded himself to mention that one to Tiger again if he already hadn’t.

“Me, Dick. You, Tony.”

Tiger finally looks at him, long and hard. Hah. “Shut up.”

Biting his tongue from speaking any further, lest he anger _The Tiger_ , Dick let himself be almost seated, pants down, final destination. It was weirdly such a turn on that Tiger was so into the post knockout the bad guys kind of thing. Maybe he should be worried for when they actually get to hero-ing and not just playing at being spies. Maybe Dick would care later, as Tiger starts teasing the skin of his thighs with his teeth. 

Ah, what the hell. He can’t help himself. “This is so weird.”

“Grayson, for the last time, _shut the fuck up_.”

“I still don’t get how you get so turned on by thi— _ssssssshit_!” His breath catches, as Tiger returns to mouthing him through his briefs, and he should so not be as aroused as he was, especially with all the spying and the fighting and the bruised knuckles he was sporting. Dammit, why was the Tiger so sexy? Why was he so weak? A weak, weak man. Shameful.

Dick honestly didn’t have much in the way of an answer, because Tiger had apparently had enough of teasing him through fabric, and decided to pull his pants the rest of the way down. Funny thing about Tiger, he never bothered to warm up whatever surface was nearby, and Dick nearly kneed him in the face upon feeling _cold metal against his ass_. Wasn’t there like a proper code to follow when it came to blowjobs enacted during an adrenaline rush? Just once Dick wanted to be treated like something other than a piece of meat.

And he so told Tiger that, because he could. “You always use me for my body.”

Tiger honestly snorts near the head of his dick, and Dick truly debated if it was a waste not to knee him now. “Like you don’t use mine.”

“I’m not just a one-time kinda gal, y’know.”

“Do you hear yourself, sometimes?” The sheer amount of disbelief in Tiger’s voice totally made it worth it.

“Yes, of course. The sound of my own voice is so soothing.”

Dick watches the infamous and rarely seen eye roll grace Tiger’s face, and can’t stop the laughter. His cock bounces as he does so, as if reminding everyone in the vicinity it was still there, not wanting to be ignored. Tiger actually gets a hungry look on his face, and Dick is so close to spouting another quip, when the man just takes Dick’s cock into his mouth entirely.

 _Don’t come don’t come don’t come!!_ “Fuck, Tig!”

He’s bobbing his head and his hands are spreading the cheeks of Dick’s ass, and Dick breathes so heavily through his nose he honestly feels like passing out for a moment. Maybe lying down. Hands on Tiger’s shoulders, Dick digs his nails into whatever he could, because he’s a little too close for comfort, and Tiger was too insistent. This was so weird. Why was he so into this? Dick could see someone over Tiger’s head that he had only knocked out a few minutes ago. Was this another form of voyeurism? Oh, god, when he had become so kinky?

Tiger releases his cock with a _pop_ , and it does all sorts of things to Dick’s insides, which it really shouldn’t. “Stop thinking so much.” 

“That’s a—first.” Wow, it was so hard to breath and make a quick remark back. Was the ground spinning? Did Tiger do that weird thing to his neck again, that honestly turned Dick into a pile of goo and left him to come like three times over? “Normally, you say I don’t — _fuck_ — think enough.”

“Also true.”

Dick wants to hit him for not explaining or talking or distracting him from not blowing all over his face (which would be _so hot right now,_ don’t think about it), but Tiger just takes him back in, back at his stupid rhythm. Such a good rhythm. All Dick could think about was Tiger’s tongue, and talking him into coming on his face _again_ , and remembers that one time Tiger even wore those sunglasses when they did it and —

 _Shit_.

Never let it be said that Tiger was light on the aftercare, because he was not. And Dick may have moaned and groaned and swatted him at least once over it, but Tiger cleaned him up and put him away so neatly, had it not been for the glazed look, it wouldn’t have been known that Dick got sucked. “You got a little…” Dick motions to the corner of his mouth, and honestly has a moment where he thinks about his refractory period deciding to be nonexistent, when Tiger’s tongue swipes at the corner of his mouth. Goddamn. He would let this man do anything to him.

When they’re looking around, Tiger looking absolutely unflappable with his hands on his hips, that Dick finally looks down. Oh. “Do you want me to, uh…” Making a hand motion to Tiger’s own problem, Dick simply watches as the man readjusts himself. 

“I will be fine, thank you.”

“I mean, you’ll last like, what, thirty seconds? Should be easy, right?”

“Says the man who came _immediately_ the first time I penetrated him.” Oof, Tiger is quick and _brutal_. Totally lives up to that name.

“Hey, I was pent up and lonely.”

“Of course you were.”

Dick nudges him, because it’s all he could manage. Not that he would admit to Tiger being right (which he totally _was not_ ), it didn’t matter. Never. Especially not when Dick fondly remembered the time that Tiger came just from Dick’s _foot_ alone. Man had some other kind of pent up shit going on, and well, it was weird.

Weird and kind of interesting, but totally weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i luv tiger/dick they had such a good dynamic I'm so glad grayson was just about their epic love story


	5. kontim: you are kind of amazing, boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for my lovely jaime!! happy birthday sweetpea!!

Tim is… _sly._

Robin was boyish and funny and laughing. But Tim, _Tim_ is sly, and that is one of the first thing Kon can gather about him. Kon tries to make the distinction once the mask covers his face, but sometimes the lines blur. Sometimes Robin bleeds into Tim, or Tim bleeds into Robin. Maybe that was Tim’s angle, get the two of them confused so people don’t question him. Not that Kon would ever be able to tell, just because that was how Tim was.

So when they mix, when he’s no longer just Tim Drake, and no longer just Robin, he’s _just_ Tim. That’s what he says, and quite frankly, it’s disarming. A hand on the arm, when Tim says it the first time. Like he was still just ‘Superboy’, no room for argument or secret identities. Kon asks if he should call him ‘Alvin’ again, and Tim laughs. 

Distracting. Disarming. Dangerous.

Kon knows that Tim has everything under control, that everything is going according to plan. Like each breath he has, in some way, Tim has already counted to the exact moment the next one would occur. When he was younger, he cared. He cared so much he would fight and bicker all the time, to try to make it seem like each fight wasn’t staged, wasn’t part of some master plan. But then Kon learned a valuable lesson: Tim is sly. And quite frankly it was terrifying to realise he enjoyed being pulled along so well.

 

Tim is… _charming_.

It was the second thing Kon noticed about Tim, when he’d finally removed the layers of secrecy, and let him see his eyes for the first time. Also the _voice_ , that gave away just how deep his knowledge and mind ran, bordering on a huskiness when he got into whatever he was researching. Tim is soft underneath all that armour, likely due to nights of sending Bart out to pick up some other kind of food from another country Kon had never heard of, and binging until it was time for breakfast. 

But it doesn’t detract from him at all. It builds and piles and keeps going until it’s sky high, and Kon has to circle around him a few times just to get every angle. Kon could whittle it down to high cheekbones and long lashes and plush lips, like something out of one of his magazines he kept hidden in his bottom drawer, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe, he couldn’t quite answer, because he still wasn’t ready to approach Clark with this kind of heavy stuff. Maybe in another year, when he could still wrap his head around the name Conner, and how he had a home, a family. 

Maybe in that extra year, he’d also learn not to dream of rich blue, something that lent to one too many old jokes about Batman _collecting_ a certain type of pretty boy. Also called for a joke about him, and his life that was a colossal joke, and how he fell for the exact kind of boy with a soft kind of smile and far too many secrets he was warned about. Don’t do it to yourself, kid, Kon tells himself, you’ve already been down this path once before. You got burned bad, last time, remember?

(Kon only remembers an Adam’s apple that jumps as Tim swallows, eyes all keyed into that movement, between walls and stone and metal, nothing stops him)

 

Tim is… _cruel._

If Kon were being honest, he should have known. Even back when they were ‘Young Just Us’, there was a mean streak in Tim, hidden underneath kevlar and half hearted jokes and that big yellow ‘R’. He’d only seen it a handful of times — truly seen the extent of it — when they went against particular cases. Maybe it was something the big bad bat had ingrained in him, but Tim is knee-jerk reactions and plans that only had two whole escapes organised. 

Tim is a fist in a guy’s face when he’s already down. Nothing really scares Kon (not that anything can when he’s practically invulnerable, right?), but seeing Tim lose himself in the moment so easily, it’s hard to distinguish who he is. Tim Drake? Tim Wayne? Robin, the Boy Wonder? Kon can never answer at that moment when he has to catch Tim, because Bart was thrown off as if Tim had suddenly developed super-human strength (ridiculous). 

Muscles clench and fight under his grip, reminding Kon that he could quite easily break Tim in half. But he won’t because that isn't the right thing to do

And he’s not cruel like Tim is. He’s just afraid for him, and places a hand on his shoulder when they’re outside. Tries to comfort him because emotions like these are weird and worrying and make him realise things he never really thought about.

Like songs about love are really catchy and really inappropriate when Tim looks like he might rip someone’s head off and not really be fussed about it.

 

Tim is… _funny._

Allegedly, it’s a _Robin_ thing. The quips and constant humour. Tim says it's about keeping the big man entertained, which just asks more questions. Kon doesn’t voice them, just listens as Tim repeats some joke he probably told the night before while on patrol in Gotham. Too bad it’s one of those ‘you had to be there’ moments, but his cheeks flush as he laughs partway through the end and there it is. That moment Kon was looking for. Where the world seems to stop for a moment and appreciate the genuine feeling on Tim Drake’s face.

Really though, it is about his eyes again. It always comes down to something poetic, like flying over oceans during sunset, or those flowers sitting on Aunt Martha’s table, or the colour of the blouse of the girl who sits in front of him in class. Except Tim’s eyes… they burn and roar, when he’s angry or planning or _laughing_. Tim doesn’t always laugh, but when he does, his eyes light up just enough for Kon to see it, to feel that own twist in his gut that tells him he’s _right_ about Tim. That he’s so sure Tim is pretty damn perfect.

Even if his jokes need work and he needs to stop laughing before giving away the punchline, and he also needs to chill out for more than the three minutes he sets aside a day to give Kon a story from the last night. But Kon could work on that, surely, chin in hand as he watches Tim wrap his hands around a mug, smiling into the coffee. His eyes are hidden again, but that’s okay this time at least. No need to check them to see if he’s lying again, because Tim gives a snort, as if he remembers something. 

And looks back up with a smile that makes his eyes shine.

 

 

Tim is several shades of amazing to Kon. He just doesn’t know it yet.


	6. timbart: memory is a dangerous thing

Bart was never quite sure how to explain it. Not that he ever had a need to, because Tim was just so _smart_ , and just knew. Always seemed to be one step ahead, which Bart was so happy with, as it made for less conversation. Little need to linger over specifics when Tim could just look him over once and get it. In hindsight, Bart should question whether Tim had spoken to Nightwing about bits and pieces, or maybe had even gone to Wally — a thought that deeply upset him. 

But not now. He wouldn’t allow it. 

Not when it was Tim’s skin under his nails, voice at his ear, telling him to undress, touch him, Bart, here. There. All over. Bart groans, fingers sliding over, too slick, spreading, feeling, digging in when there’s that twist on his cock he remembers. Knows. Loves. Words caught in the back of the throat now, strangled noises that speak more than directions, more than the control. 

Control Tim so desperately craves, and Bart gives and gives and gives. Comments he wants to give, teases he has to let Tim hear, all die on his tongue. Don’t break the moment. Don’t stop the memory. Pressure on the underside of his cock, teeth clicking, breathing? Maybe. 

“ _Bart_.” Strangled voice, a whimper as he comes. Did he vibrate again oh don’t check don’t look he’s hot and wet and it’s just him breathing against his throat, murmuring. One name. His name. Things begin to get fuzzy, breaking it up, fingers slide harder, faster, Bart thrusting up against his own hand until he spills into his hands, over his stomach. 

A smile. The last thing he sees behind his eyelids. Happy and sated and _warm_. Tim is warm, whether he believes it or not. He’s close, and griping about stickiness but his words are fading as all Bart can see is not the smile of a boy who knows he outsmarted generations of assassins, but a boy who Bart loves and cherishes, and for one whole minute believes himself to be worthy of that feeling.

“Bart.”

Break. When he blinks, Tim’s smile doesn’t disappear entirely. Lingers with every third blink, like stop motion as he knows he’s going too fast to keep on top of, so desperate and needy and not what Tim _needs_. Maybe what he just _wants_ at that moment. Bart tells himself it’s fine, that he may never have back a confirmation that he wasn’t wrong. 

Tim is hovering over him, fingers cool as they brush against his temple, sliding down. Cheeks and nose and lips, chin. Bart’s apple bobs as he swallows. Like a snap, he’s not operating at relativity, focusing on how those fingers dip over his chest, down his belly. There hadn’t been time to clean himself up (not that he had been expecting company). Bart had just expected it to be him, his hand, and his memory once again. 

“You’re back early,” he murmurs. Tim said he was having the week off — a casual thought suggested maybe he’s still dreaming. Passing out with his cock out wasn’t unexpected these days. Too pent up, too charged, need a release. 

Bad kinds of release.

No response, but not like Bart actually expected one. Getting a response back would mean Tim recognised he had in fact come back when he said he wouldn’t. It meant that he had in fact returned to Bart’s room, that he had left several days prior, in a rush. Embarrassed and ashamed, holding his clothing over his exposed body with a hand, because he wasn’t fast enough to dress himself. Wasn’t quick enough to escape when he had probably planned to.

Planning, always planning. Bart knew that Tim _always_ had at least three exits planned, _just in case_. In case something went wrong, terribly wrong, or he got exceptionally embarrassed, saying something he shouldn’t have. Maybe if Tim hadn’t been the one enforcing it so often, he wouldn’t have felt that way. Wouldn’t have left the way he did. 

So many things to think about, Bart almost forgets that Tim hasn’t blinked yet. His hands catch Tim’s cheek, sticky and sweaty. Remember to clean up after this. “Sorry.”

Tim furrows his brow, and it does all sorts of things to Bart’s belly. “What for?”

“For this.” There was no way he was going to stop his smile. He isn’t Bart Allen, former _Impulse_ , for nothing.

 _Bart kisses him_. They have a rule, a no kissing rule. Tim enforces it, even if he’s always the one always almost crossing the line. But, Speedsters are known for their impulsiveness — at least _he_ is — surely Tim knows that much. Tim would’ve had to have talked to Nightwing. Would’ve had to have talked to Wally. He would have known that Bart would break that rule, one day, eventually, at any moment. Now.

 

Tim is a bad kisser, but Bart can forgive him. 


	7. jaykyle: smoke and mirrors

Kyle wakes up last, but that’s not a first. He’s used to being able to stretch out and feel the sheets folded over haphazardly on the right side of the bed. In winter, if he’s lucky, Jason sometimes just throws them back over him — even though he kicks them off anyway. 

With a yawn, Kyle rolls over, hand stretching over the edge of the bed in an attempt to find his briefs. At least this time they didn’t get completely flung across the room. If he was feeling generous, he might mention that to Jason over breakfast. Give him a congratulatory pat on the back for not getting a little too into it.

Or the ass, if he was feeling insanely generous. “Jason, you out there?” 

“Yeah.” Of course he would be — Kyle didn’t know why he bothered asking most times. Jason really was someone who had to go out for a drag after a good round or two, and at least Kyle had managed to hammer in the habit of _leaving_ the premises for it. One too many near fires when they’d gone at it again and _someone_ had forgotten to put his butt out.

Finally opening his eyes, Kyle rolls the rest of the way onto his feet, getting his leg through the wrong hole twice before stumbling towards the balcony. There’s a hoodie on the chair just by the door that doesn’t really belong to either of them, but it fits nice and snug and perfect for the current weather. It was just getting on the cool side of summer in Gotham, where he could get away with such minimal clothing as the temperatures lowered at night. Or maybe it was growing closer to morning. Kyle honestly couldn’t tell with the sheer amount of artificial light in this place, some days.

Jason’s propped himself up in a chair, foot on the table and a cigarette perched between two fingers. Somedays, he doesn’t smoke them, and Kyle figures it’s just the sensation that Jason really wants. But he doesn’t say a word, and drags a chair a little closer so he can kick his own feet into Jason’s lap. Despite the twitch in the cheek, a hand lands on his ankle, thumb massaging the joint. He’d twisted it a few nights before, a misplaced step that made him really glad he could fly, most of the time. Still tender, and Kyle reflexively rolled his foot around clockwise, exercising it a bit.

They don’t talk as much as they used to, if they could call it talking. More like just yelling at each other with Donna trying to push them apart. More than once, Kyle had considered just asking Donna to come around to try to start a conversation between them, because there was too much to try to work out. ‘What is this?’ was number one, and they’re both bad with words, bad with feelings. Kyle doesn’t want to promise something he can’t deliver, not again.

Leaning back in his chair, Kyle lets his eyes slide over to Jason, soft and hard and scarred and smooth. Not that Kyle didn’t have his fair share of scars, but Jason had had it all. At least from what he’d heard from other people. All Jason ever told him was “I died once” and then kissed him. That was a few months ago. And Kyle hadn’t taken him all that seriously, foolishly, just pissing him off and he _totally_ deserved having his ass thrown out the door, now that he looks back on it. 

Especially when his eyes land on the brand on Jason’s cheek. Yeah, not a good move on his behalf. “You got today off?” he asks, starting conversation. Didn’t know what Jason really did outside his usual brooding routine. Maybe he wasn’t actually being so sullen these days. He looked a bit better at least, a little happier. Just barely around the eyes. Kyle didn’t know when that first happened, and it was too late to really ask about it now.

Jason hums, and finally sticks the smoke in his mouth. Avoiding the question. At least that little habit Kyle was somewhat aware of. “Been sidelined. Cracked a rib a few weeks back, took a punch the other night which didn’t help.”

Well, _shit_. And Kyle had been all nice and rough last night too, Jason with his back against his chest as Kyle had fucked up into him. A lot of grabassing and turning Jason into a bendy straw that he really wasn’t cut out to be. But now he felt kind of bad and Jason had that look in his eye that just said he knew how Kyle was feeling. Nudging Kyle’s leg with his foot, before letting it slap on the ground, Jason smiles. “It’s fine. Have to do it again like that.”

“Man after my own heart.” Kyle can’t keep up the humour in his voice when his eyes fall on whatever bandages weren’t hidden by Jason’s jacket. One day, he wouldn’t focus on himself so much. Especially not around Jason.

“I try my best.”

“I—thank you.”

“You really have never been good at pillow talk, you know.”

Kyle laughs and hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “To be fair, my pillow is back inside.”

“This is true.” 

It hangs there, the slight temptation. Just say those damn words, Rayner, he tells himself. He’d get another few hours in, at least, until duty called, and he had to leave again. Had to go back to what he deemed as ‘normal’, and everyone else just thought was strange.

Manages to push himself to his feet at least. Tugging Jason upright, cigarette abandoned in the ashtray, hands automatically going to Kyle’s waist. In return, Kyle slides his hands along the band of Jason’s briefs, slipping his fingers in to stretch them out, just a little, just enough. Holds the offer there.

Jason doesn’t take it. Kyle doesn’t blame him.

They kiss, at least, and Kyle always likes how Jason is in a perpetual state of chapped lips, despite having the most ridiculous collection of moisturisers of all kinds on hand. Side effect of the pit, Kyle just assumes. They don’t talk about death. They have so much to actually talk about. But Jason’s lips were nice and plump and his teeth were tugging Kyle’s lower one, definitely something Kyle taught him. And it does all sorts of things to Kyle, like make his stomach flip flop and dick twitch and he’s telling himself to stop getting butterflies. Doesn’t like feeling all floaty when he’s not actually flying. Once he’s on the ground, he would like to stay grounded, thank you very much.

“Heading out soon?” Jason asks, normal conversation, slightly out of breath. As normal as they are getting these days. Struggling just a little to maintain a sense of normal, with Kyle spending more time out there than on Earth. Took him nearly a full day just to adjust to having to use his own two feet again. And really, he knows how it looks, seeking out Jason last on these impromptu visits. One day, when he could word it better than he knows he could, Kyle would tell him Jason was far more to him than just a place to crash. A last stop before going back out into the great depths of space.

Except Kyle keeps his hands on Jason’s ass. Slips the band a little lower, revealing the swell to some poor bastard who might have been using a pair of binoculars, or one of those infamous batcams Jason once warned him about. Taps the skin there. “I’ve got time.” 

A raised brow, as they were diverting from the normal. They had never been normal. Jason was still playing at being not-dead, and Kyle was the last choice in all the universe. Maybe now was a good time to start letting go of the need for normality. 

“You’re making breakfast, then. Break my fucking back next time.”

Kyle laughs, this kind of normality he could still live with, at least. “Quit your bitching, Todd.” Talking could come another day, but at least he could stuff Jason full of some pancakes and sit in front of the television for a while. Maybe Jason would read that book aloud, the one he was always thumbing through when he thought Kyle wasn’t watching. Kyle could catch up on Earth, and Jason could catch up on some sleep, and the universe wouldn’t crash around their ears, maybe.

And just maybe Kyle could finish those half a dozen sketches of Jason facing left, and maybe even right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rly like jaykyle... @ dc let them join up together more often pls


	8. jason + ambiguous partner: want and need and lust. trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for u kathy ;)

Too stuffy. Too hot. Hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to even tear his eyes away as his partner hovers over him. Jason is the one lying down, but he’s digging his nails into his partner’s thighs like it might just make him hold on a little longer. Just a little more. His entire body quakes, betraying him, as they shuffle closer. 

Shuffle over him, cock hanging thick between their legs and Jason can’t help the knee-jerk reaction. Needs to stop thinking about himself, he’ll come sooner that way. His hands travel higher, over the hard muscle towards the swell of his partner’s ass, and he squeezes. Embarrassment doesn’t hit him, and probably won’t until much later, when he’s spent and tired, but Jason didn’t linger on it. Didn’t want to be hit by that sort of thing. Just wanted the here and now.

“Close your eyes.”

Jason does as he’s told, arching up at the order and — _oh_. A long, low moan leaves him, as his partner comes over his cheeks. Dribbling a line over his lips and further south, Jason’s tongue flicks out to try to catch something, anything. His own hips jerk, as his partner slides down a little, and Jason can just _barely_ feel pressure agains his own cock, so needed. Can feel himself tightening, drawing into a little ball, as fingers trace around the head of where his cock lies heavy against his belly, not quite touching, ghosting the slit. There’s laughter, and when Jason moves the fingers leave him. No, dammit!

“Clean yourself up first.”

Slowly but surely, his pride does kick in, and Jason can’t help the flush on his cheeks that burns down his chest. Yet it doesn’t stop him, not when he can still feel where they came on his face so clearly, and traces over the cooling lines with the tips of his fingers, before sliding them between his teeth. Tongue curling around his digits to gather off the come and both of them moan, Jason just that fraction more muffled. The hand on him has returned, holding him down, and Jason’s cock _twitches_ enough to brush it, enough to stimulate him. 

Eyes watch him, and Jason repeats the motion, skin sticky and sweaty despite his best attempt to clean himself. Following the trail that runs over his lips and down his chin to the hollow of his throat, Jason watches his partner watch him, so intense in the stare that Jason bits his lip to distract himself. Fingers dip lower over the swell of his chest, no longer moving his fingers back to his mouth but instead tracing thin lines further still. Southward, towards the dip of his navel. Another time, and Jason might let him come there. 

But his hand grasps his cock and he doesn’t think about the _next time_ , focuses on how good it was to actually get a grasp, even if it’s only himself and his partner is still smiling. Hand on wrist, his partner still him, makes him pause. Wait. Jason could only do so much waiting before he might just combust, might just cave in and come from long looks and only the slightest brush. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the last time.

Damn, he was way too into this.

Moving first, his partner takes the lead. A firm grasp on Jason’s cock that has him jump despite himself, a well needed touch that his him shake and groan, hand sliding up and down in a steady rhythm. Too gentle, but it builds in him, has him shaking all over that he has to tear at the sheets a little, concentrate on something else. Don’t come don’t come don’t come

“Use your hand too.”

With a loud groan, Jason’s hand joins, a slight thumb against the tip to test just how far gone he really was. Hand slides further south, bumping his partner’s. Past them, reaching under himself, thumb brushing where his balls sat, making him sweat even more. Closer, so close. How was he holding out so well? Giving himself a serious case of blue balls.

“Do it.”

Free hand taken away, Jason opens his eyes he hadn’t realised he closed, to watch his partner lift his hand. Swallowing his fingers, his partner makes all sorts of obscene noises, not unlike when his head was between Jason’s thighs — how long ago? It felt like days, with how long he’d been laying there.

An encouraging nudge against the hand that lingered south, Jason huffs, feeling a new blush spread over his cheeks. Stretches his fingers towards his hole. Maybe he had already come, he wasn’t so sure. Too hot, too heavy. His mind was racing and yet running so slow, at the first press of his finger against a tight ring of muscle. Jason can’t catch all the words (a tease, that much he can tell, and he knows he had come already), but he’s not stopped, pushed further. Fingers wrap around his wrist, pressing him in deeper. 

Spreading his legs a little more, Jason has a sleazy slow kind of thought that maybe he would be pressed into the bed tonight, and he looks up through half lidded eyes, at an expression that was mirrored on his own face, he’s sure. Want and need and lust. Trust. It’s all muddled together in low lighting and a heavy layer of expensive aftershave. His entire core clenches, no more, he’s drained.

Jason doesn’t need to look down to know he was more than finish, but there are hands all over him. Soft and coupled with words of safety, promise. A hand on his gut, a finger pressed between his lips. Tasting himself. Too much teeth and not much talent, but Jason gave enough of a good impression, he’s sure at least. They’d let him go again later. Much later. When he can feel his hips again, maybe got some water back into his system. 

Laying a hand against his partner’s cheek, Jason lets himself smile, a lazy stretch of lips that was returned. Yeah, maybe sooner, rather than later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u can imagine who u want his partner to be haha
> 
> taking requests on [tumblr](http://www.hotlineaisui.tumblr.com)


	9. dicktiger: maddening

In truth, he somewhat missed Grayson.

Silence had begun to feel deafening once more, and it was not uncommon for Tiger to expect a quip from his right shoulder. A hand at his waist. That easy sort of smile Grayson sometimes graced him with, when he wasn’t frowning at his feet like he wasn’t sure what they were. Grayson was unexpectedly _touchy_ with him, all nudging at his shoulders and the ridiculous _pet-_ names he seemed to come up with on the spot. 

More than once, Tiger had considered just shooting Grayson and saving himself a headache. They were both aware of that feeling. And yet Grayson still never seemed to mind, staring down the end of a barrel — never encouraging or discouraging, just holding that heavy gaze that said so much about him, secrets no files in the universe could ever reveal. The first time Tiger had threatened something other than simple bodily harm, Grayson had just sighed, running a hand through his hair. No smiles. An awareness, as he had fallen silent.

A long thrum went through Tiger at that moment; the swan song. Hindsight tells him he should have known better, but hindsight told him that he should have known, all along. Long before getting himself into a mess, this mess with Spyral and Checkmate and helping out _Nightwing in Gotham_ , Tiger had some sensation of doom. Never could pinpoint what it was, exactly, but it was there in waves when Dick Grayson had been appointed his partner. When Tiger was led on an adventure around the world, being _heroic and good_. Still an odd sensation he couldn’t quite get past.

Complicated. Somehow, when Grayson was involved, things always got complicated. Tiger had never considered himself a very romantic man, but even something as simple as shaving got too personal, too deep. Grayson’s hands gently turning his head, steady hand as he held the blade at his throat. Do it, Tiger had thought, and he almost thinks Grayson might. Except the blade slid through hair, missing his skin, missing his chance. A very thin line they walk.

> _“I can’t believe you trust me to do this.”_
> 
> _“I may not particularly like you, Grayson, but that does not mean I do not trust you.”_
> 
> _“Oh.”_
> 
> _“You missed a spot.”_

One misstep, and Tiger may fall into something crushing and maddening, a careless feeling that strikes him when he least expected it. Of course this is not the first time, oh no, never. There have been few in his life, each time a little more personal, a little more haunting. He’s controlled and careful, separating and distinguishing. Tiger likes to line everything up, so he understands, so he can determine what the best course of action is. Grayson used to tease him over the notion of ‘micromanaging his feelings’, but it was more than that.

Protection, always about protecting himself first. So many things had been lost, and yet so many things had been gained. A lifetime ago, when he had left those streets with a promise of a better life, his only possessions were the clothes on his back, six charms strung together on an old chain (something of his mother’s), and a brand on his back (a lasting mark from a captor). Nothing of note, not deserving to be recorded.

His clothes had been burned. Those charms were scattered to the wind. And the brand had healed over. Tiger had moved on.

 

Breathing out through his nose, Tiger taps on the screen. Rolls the words ‘micromanaging’ and ‘feelings’ around in his head, as he brings up a tracker. Grayson thought he knew him, so well. Thought he read into every one of Tiger’s own actions and understood. But Tiger knew Grayson was wrong, and that he would never quite understand. 

Tiger missed Grayson, quite terribly, and watched the tracker travel through Gotham, miles away. Still alive and well, still moving between buildings like Grayson owned the place. Maybe he did, as Tiger had seen him _fly_. Grayson was at home in the air, in a way Tiger never could be, and it showed spectacularly. Films and photographs, sent to prepare him for meeting Grayson for the first time, never prepared him for the real life version.

A real life version with shaggy, dark hair, always in a dire need of a cut. A real life version with warm blue eyes, reminding Tiger of the oceans he crossed once he was free of his homeland. A real life version that seemed like it had been pulled apart and sewn back together, loved and used and abused, but still good. Grayson was still so _good_. Tiger was mildly afraid of that notion, and continued to watch the little blue light pause over one building. 

Fingers twitch, imagining a fringe that probably needed a trim so Grayson could _see_ well enough, and a five o’clock shadow at eight o’clock in the morning begging for a shave. Tiger had all the tools necessary, a blade he had bought on a whim when he was nineteen and far too comfortable. Creams and brushes and the seating. Set up, waiting to be used. Tapping his thigh, Tiger remembered ruffling Grayson’s fringe the first time, and how his mouth fell into a little ‘o’, eyebrows drawing together in a tiny 'v'. The effect was devastating.

Turning the tracker off, Tiger didn’t know why he worried. Why he cared. Sewing the last charm into Grayson’s suit was simply to make sure he wouldn’t suddenly get cold feet and attempt to disappear from a _spy_. It was not simply underestimating Grayson — he would have known that Tiger would use some personal tracking device himself — but Tiger had not expected it to be kept. Naturally, it would have been found in the lining of Grayson’s pants, set against his left hip. Tiger almost wanted it to be broken, to let him separate, distinguish. Save him from himself, and the crushing feeling that doesn’t want to be buried away in the recesses of his mind until there was a better time.

No, Grayson wouldn’t appreciate that at all. But Tiger can appreciate a charm, relatively nondescript and having a vague sense of a life he once had, was kept, and sewn into some part of Nightwing’s suit. That he would be carried, a smaller part of him, a more hopeful part. One that did not try to plan and prepare and prevent. One that loved and missed and tortured.

 

Perhaps, Grayson missed him too, and that thought alone gave Tiger the slightest flash of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [jojo poses]
> 
> taking requests on [tumblr](http://www.hotlineaisui.tumblr.com)


	10. dickwally: laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> expanded twitfic from twitter convo w kathy

Dick wants to keep a straight face. He honestly, truly does. If not for his own sake, mostly for Wally’s. No, especially for Wally, who can’t seem to escape the grasp of being a teenage speedster. Maybe it says something, that he recovers a little slower each time (Dick _is_ counting, by this stage), hoping to flatline soon enough. 

But when Wally can’t even enter him without looking mildly panicked and upset, Dick kind of sort of struggles to fight the smile. “It’s fine,” he reassures Wally, hand ruffling the sweaty fringe, patting overly flushed cheeks. 

“No it’s not!” Wally practically caws at him, rolling away a little too quickly, before back at Dick’s side, staring up at the ceiling. “I really, _really_ wanna—you know—but I can’t—”

“ _Focus_ , Walls.”

“It’s too hard, Dick!”

And Dick _knows_ he shouldn’t, but he snorts and shudders, trying to smother the noise, as Wally vibrates against his ribs. In between laughter, he repeats Wally’s ‘it’s too hard’, or at least attempts to, only getting to the second syllable before dissolving into giggles again. 

“S-stop doing tha _ttt_!” Dragging on the last sound, when Wally’s fingers dig into his side again, something that could be considered an attempt to get Dick to quieten down. He doesn’t, just laughs a little louder, a little harder, curling into Wally’s hands as he does so.

Wally tries to not think about how Dick’s cock is pressed against his hip, decidedly not as hard as it was moments ago. No, it would’ve been longer than that, maybe, he was getting lost again, simply watching the jump in Dick’s throat with each muffled giggle. How his eyes were slipping almost closed again, long lashes, blue eyes dipped dark, that knowing spark in the corner just there.

Those trains of thoughts stop when Dick winds his arms around his neck. Kisses him deeply and intensely and lovingly. _Mind-blowingly._ Different from every other kiss, that has Wally stop _start_. Kick it up to another level as he tries to _focus_ , just like Dick keeps murmuring against his lips. Hard to focus on one point when he’s nudged, rolling, pushing Dick down on the mattress.

Definitely hard to focus, when Dick is spread out, again, still smiling, still flush. Wally pushes himself up to rest on his knees, as he takes everything in. “Focus,” he murmurs to himself, snapping to, only to disappear again when he traces fingers over ribs that still stick out a little too much, hipbones jutting out against his palm.

Dick can feel the ghost of each touch, knowing that _this time_ Wally is ready. Catching Wally’s hand, Dick presses his lips against knuckles, so smooth compared to his own, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taking requests on [tumblr](http://www.hotlineaisui.tumblr.com)


	11. dicktim: times two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stumbled across fanart of ["nightwing sandwich"](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/13984629595) and kathy egged me on. ok not rly but kind of.

If Tim knew he would be entertaining so many in his bed after a particularly long night of patrol, he might’ve been a bit more cordial. But he hadn’t expected anything like this, not at all. Simply pressed between two bodies, hot and hard, even through their suits. That shouldn’t be right, he tells himself, as thermal layers were supposed to regulate, if not theirs, then his own, but gloved hands touch him, and he can’t find a reason in him to care.

Nightwing. Nightwing _s._ Tim hadn’t quite decided if the plural should be an acknowledged thing, when they act in almost perfect unison, mirrors of each other. Whilst he hadn’t quite picked up that Nightwing — _Dick_ — was here, in his room, and why he was touching him so gently, it was another thing to be filed away for later. Not when Tim could trace finger stripes with his lips, and press a hand firmly against a bleeding red. Higher thought would get there, eventually, but right now it was stuck somewhere with his voice, far far away, not sure what to do. 

Who to do.

Maybe he’d actually pricked his finger on one of Ivy’s roses, maybe he’d inhaled some gas. No, no logical thinking. Dick, Nightwing, kisses himself, deeply and surely and it’s like everything Tim had ever thought of. Slick sounds and totally unnecessary moans, like Nightwing, Dick, had done this before. Had he done it before? Tim wonders if he should ask, is that the polite thing to do? They were aware of alternate dimensions and universes and Earths. Surely it would’ve crossed one of their minds. 

Tim can see the beading of sweat along Dick’s neck, following the line of his suit to disappear where it just barely juts off the skin. Both of them. Absolutely in time with each other. He knows he shouldn’t shudder at that, but he does a little.

It doesn’t take them long to finally catch their breath, little grins on their faces that match, followed by darkened eyes and looks. Knowing looks. Planned this. Who are you, number two? Tim wants to ask, but can’t find words. Only sounds, when all three of them attempt something kind of like kissing two people at once, before taking turns. Something Tim mentally ticks off his list of things to do before he dies. He never knew it was possible, but there was always a first time for being wrong.

Own hands sliding through hair (just like he’d always dreamed), Tim slips his fingers down to where the temples are, teasing the edge of the domino mask just there. On or off? Not that he minded either way, and had equal fantasies about both, more often than once. Whilst the internet told him that sex with a vigilante in suit was the _ideal_ , Tim hadn’t quite decided.

Except Nightwing twitches, moving away from his hand. Something on his face that Tim can’t quite place, but he gets it. Masks stay on. Nightwing then. Maybe he should nickname them, so he can make the distinction. Does he want to make the distinction?

No time to decide. Half a mind to think he’s dealing with a speedster, with how quickly he’s manhandled and moved. Tim can’t even make himself focus on the difference in gloves to determine whose touching him where, as he’s fairly sure he’s come in his own suit at least once already. Doesn’t help they’re both at his ears. Talking. That’s all their doing when their hands still. Talk and talk and talk. Tim loves to hear Di— _Nightwing_ talk. Constantly. Maybe that’s his thing. He’ll figure that out later.

“You’re so pretty, Tim…”

“Can’t wait to see you undressed…”

“Spread out for me…”

“Pink lips…”

“Already so wet…”

“Wanna touch you now…”

Tim wants to be witty and cool and remark a ‘well do it then’, but he’s still mouthing and moaning and groaning. Wiggles under their words, as their hands finally meet just over his dick, different levels of pressure. Oh no, Tim thinks, no longer together. They started doing their own things. And that just hit him in the belly with a different weight of excitement, a new white hot rush through his spine as he receives a kiss to his cheek, another to his knuckles. A bite to his ear while his fingers disappear between Nightwing’s lips. 

Well then.

Whilst he can’t quite determine when he ended up pressed between the two of them, chest to chest, with Nightwing against his back, he wasn’t ready to argue. It was stifling, and Tim is fairly sure, through his haze, they were making out again. That was totally okay with him, as Tim decides he could probably watch Nightwing kiss himself all the time. With his complete blessing. 

But then they part, and Tim wants to comment, wants to say something, but he can tell. They’ve had enough. Him now. As he’s coaxed into a kiss, Tim knows it’s the kind of things he normally thinks of, when he watches Nightwing in action. When he reads tabloids to keep up to date, and catches the occasional batcam from Bludhaven. What everyone says kissing Dick Grayson — _Nightwing_ — would be like, maybe just a little more tongue, a few more noises. Tim would give him a solid eight on the scale of having never being kissed by Nightwing, and digs his nails into Nightwing’s thighs, trying to hold himself steady. Dizzying and stomach dropping and has him twitching in his own suit. A nine at best. Could do without the excess tongue. 

Behind him, he can hear chatter. Talk. Seductive accompanied by hands tracing over him, finding just where to press him under his suit. Moulding his ass through kevlar and padding, pressing all the right places. So good, Timmy, gonna fuck you good, just you wait. Oh, he was waiting as patiently as he could manage, never mind being absolutely ready, pushing back against the hand when it nudged where his dick was firmly held. Wanted to say: just get me out of this suit! 

Maybe Nightwing developed a sixth sense. Maybe he just wanted to get on with it too. Whatever the reason, Tim let out the most pleased noise he could manage when two sets of hands find the zipper of his suit, and free him of stickiness and spandex. 

Whilst he’s more than happy to let them move him, to pull his suit off, Tim notes the lack of movement towards their own. Oh. _Oh._ Just when he thought he couldn’t get any harder, Tim was sure a sheet could brush over his dick and have him come all over the solid black of Nightwing’s stomach, and he’d say thank you. Maybe lick it up off him later (dammit, get a _hold_ _of_ _yourself_ , Drake).

Movement, again. Unison, somewhat. Practiced. Definitely done this before. Tim doesn’t linger on it, not when he’s got them both pressed against his southern regions, and before he can berate himself for ‘southern regions’, he’s pretty sure he came. Again.

Nightwing is nothing if not persistent, still keeping a very firm grasp on his dick, as he teases over sensitive skin and—

Tim realises he came on Nightwing’s face. He can feel his eyes roll to the back of his head.

There’s laughter, and he’s trembling and swearing but he doesn’t _care_. Not when fingers spread him, teeth nip him, a tongue presses right there. Even if he was on his knees, being very firmly held up, Tim is pretty sure he should just fall over to save himself. The first lick has him practically jump away, but the second one is accompanied by thumbs holding him wider. Definitely the kind of things he’d read about on the internet (and watched a few videos of) and well. Well. Tim couldn’t think beyond that, when Nightwing’s tongue probes deeper, far more confident, and does all sorts of things to Tim’s insides that toys just couldn’t.

Or maybe it was simply because it was Nightwing. Every fantasy driving up to this point. He even has _two._ Damn, he was so spoilt, and so wobbly on his knees he doesn’t realise he’s being lowered. Not until he’s pretty sure there’s nothing else left in his dick to offer, and Nightwing is smiling at him all sweetly and lovely, the exact replica of what Tim knows and remembers. Like a moment picked out of his memories, earlier ones, when it was just the two of them. But it’s coupled with a playfulness around the eyes, the kind of thing the girls at the Tower gossiped about. And Tim sits between them, naked and skinny and hands on thighs, receiving it.

No one would believe him if he said anything. Maybe it’s best he never speaks of this, not when Nightwing finally kisses him once more. No more excess tongue, like he’d learnt in only minutes what not to do. Carefully cups his cheeks, and Tim can feel his own come on his cheeks, and realises he doesn’t mind at all. 

But, the room shifts again, just the feeling. Movement. Looking over his shoulder, Tim almost forgot about the other one, just too used to the blue. Maybe it was his subconscious telling him something, or maybe he was just being rude. Even as Tim tried to work out what was the right thing to do in this situation, he runs out of time. Nightwing doesn’t give him a chance to think, barely even get his suit the entire way off. Sits heavy around his hips, tugged low enough only to expose his cock. Cup free, no underwear, ready and expectant, like he knew this would happen. Tim files that away to explore later, when he was alone with his hand and not much else to think about. 

Hands on his hips, Tim is dragged back, nails catching in the sheets. Swiftly entered, and he can _feel_ himself stop, start. Run a hundred miles an hour, and then some. To the hilt, before pulling out and rushing back in again. No time to consider anything, save for how he’d bruise in the morning and how Nightwing is smiling at him again. Kissing him. Murmuring in his ear. Don’t close your eyes, Tim, let me see your face. 

Choking, Tim moves with Nightwing, pushing back on him, trying to make the contact faster, harder. Wants to tell him his cock was just like all the rumours were telling him, wants to do something other than grasp onto Nightwing for dear life as he feels quite like a rag doll, but he’s also quite alright with that fact. Something about how Nightwing runs a hand over his face, pushes back his hair, and kisses him, while Nightwing fucks him, hard and rough, has him torn between two places. Two very different, but very wanted, places.

He’d care later. Much later. When Nightwing kisses him and whispers that he can’t wait for his turn, Tim knows he’s not worrying about the future, but that moment. One long, blissful moment.

 

Until he wakes up.


End file.
